A bit too late
by Pockethobbit
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. When Sherlock gets a call from Mycroft, he immediately flies back to London. John has disappeared and a mysterious killer dresses his victims in deerstalkers. Is there a connection between this two cases? And will Sherlock be a bit too late to find John? Angsty JOHNLOCK, with some fluff at the end. Rated T. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: A call from Myc'

_AN: Here's my second fanfiction ever! Hope you like it. Please leave a review, if you've liked this first chapter and tell me how you think it'll continue. :) _  
_And, if you have some requests for other fanfictions, contact me and just ask :) I'm open for nearly everything, if I know what it is._  
_~ TheNameIsAllieHolmes_

Chapter 1: A call from Myc'

'_Sherlock, you have to come back. You're needed.'_ Mycroft's voice was uncaring as always. Sherlock sighed.  
'What is it now, Myc?' He knew exactly how much Mycroft hated his nickname. He could nearly hear his brother's frown through the mobile phone.  
_'A mysterious serial killer. Even the government can't identify him, as much I hate to admit that. You must come back.'_ Sherlock chuckled unamused.  
'What is with John? Will he be able to assist me?', he asked. There was a short silence at the other end, but then Mycroft answered:  
_'We'll talk about that, when you're here. I'll send a Jet.'_ And with that, he ended the call. Sherlock snorted. How clever of Mycroft. He knew, now Sherlock would be curious what the matter with John was. Maybe even worried, if he would let himself have an emotion. But that was ridiculous, of course.

Some hours later he sat in his brother's office. He had washed and shaved, had a new haircut - after his hair had grown down to his shoulders during his haunt – and wore now his old coat and blue scarf again. He positioned his hands under his chin and observed Mycroft.  
'You're worried', he stated. The man vis-à-vis just nodded. "You're worried because of John or because of how I will react to what happened to John. Something bad, I assume.' It irritated Sherlock a bit. His brother was rarely worried about other human beings.  
'He disappeared', Mycroft declared. Sherlock frowned. If his brother was _normal_ he would say he were joking, but Mycroft wasn't mundane. He didn't like jokes, so as Sherlock. But why would he say something like that? He was the British government, he was the MI6 and clearly nobody could just _disappear_ of him, particularly nobody like John. But there was no other possibility that would cause such a statement from him.  
'For how long has he been absent?', he asked, accepting the statement as what Mycroft thought was the truth.  
'For three weeks and five days.' Sherlock suddenly got angry.  
'And you're informing me _NOW_ about this? Isn't it a bit early for such an insignificant information?', he snorted sarcastically. Mycroft frowned.  
'I didn't think it would be important. But then there was that thing with the serial killer…'  
Sherlock scowled. 'What thing?' Sighing, Mycroft grabbed a file which laid on his desk. He wordlessly gave it to Sherlock. Latter impatiently grabbed it and unfolded it. It contained photos of crime scenes. At each was a murder victim of different age, nationality and profession. All were killed differently – stabbed, strangled, poisoned, shot, and so on. But the most extraordinary thing was, that each of them wore a deerstalker. The same hat, which Sherlock now was famous for.  
'The murderer wants me to investigate the crime. He knows I'm alive', Sherlock said.  
'That's was I thought.' Mycroft watched him a bit worried.  
'And John disappeared?', Sherlock asked. His brother nodded.  
'One week before the first murder. But we found something in his flat.' He opened a drawer and gave Sherlock a little sheet. It was normal white, like you find it in every printer and there was only one sentence on it, hastily scribbled with a ball pen. _Find me Sherlock, please._


	2. Chapter 2: A realisation

Chapter 2: A realization

Sherlock paced trough his room in the Diogenes club. He lived there momentarily because nobody should know that he still was alive. The sleuth was deep in though. He combed through the rooms and aisles of his mind-palace. He tried to combine the evidences. Where could John be? By the urgency of his note he clearly had been abducted. But how could he have been abducted, so as he could write a note before? And where did he know from, that Sherlock still was alive? Of course, the abductor could have told him, but why? It was rather clear, that the kidnapper and the deerstalker-murderer were the same person. It was unlikely that someone besides Molly, his brother and the mysterious killer knew that he wasn't dead. And where did this man or - Sherlock reminded himself - woman, know from, that he was alive?

Sherlock tore his hair frustrated. He needed John. He needed John to ask all these silly questions. That would help him think. But that was the problem, he was looking for John, so John wouldn't be able to help him. 'What would you do, John?', he asked nobody. In his mind-palace he went to 221B. He watched as a black figure walked into the living room. He saw how John woke up in his bed and listened down the flat. He heard someone coming up the stairs. John quickly got his gun and pointed it at the door.

That was it. There was the problem. John wouldn't have written a note for Sherlock. He wouldn't have. He would have tried to fight the abductor if he were able to think or _write._ So, there were only three more possibilities.  
One - the abductor had written the note after he had knocked out John. But it clearly was John's handwriting.  
Two - he had forced John to write the note. But if John had had one hand free to write, he would have fought him.  
And three... Sherlock began to tremble. The only remaining possibility was, that John _was _the abductor. That he hadn't been abducted. That he was the deerstalker-murderer. But that couldn't be true. It mustn't be true. John just couldn't. After all, this was John Hamish Watson, who he was talking about, the kindest man Sherlock knew. He would never kill someone unless this someone was a danger for somebody John loved. Or would he? Sherlock sat down on his bed. His entire body was shaking. He needed to have overlooked something, anything that proved there was another possibility. It mustn't be John. But there wasn't anything. A single tear made his way over his high cheekbones. Sherlock shook his head. He had to pull himself together. He had to find John, before he did another crime. He had to save him.

_AN: Hope you liked this one :) Reviews with constructive criticism are requested. The next Chapter will be a bit more action, I promise ;)_  
_~ TheNameIsAllieHolmes_


	3. Chapter 3: An encounter

**Chapter 3: An encounter**

As Sherlock hired a cab he trembled slightly. He wasn't nervous or afraid, he simply was shaking from the pressure which lay on his shoulders. He had to act quickly so that his plan worked, before Mycroft and Scotland Yard could stop him. As a black cab stopped besides him he swiftly climbed inside and barked an address at the cabby. He watched the houses of London pulling ahead outside the window. The dusk was already breaking. In the last few hours he had thought really hard and had found out who would be John's next victim. All of his antecedent victims had been related to some central figure in one of their cases. John had proceeded chronologically, from their first case (a study in pink) down the list of his blog. And the next victim would be Eloise Bradley, the only remained relative of Dr. Frankland from _the hound of Baskervilles_. It was very likely that he would kill her tonight. His blogger had killed in a pattern, like he wanted Sherlock to find him, which was probably the sense of his actions. Sherlock was worried. That didn't happen often, it was a rarity. He was worried that his plan wouldn't work. What if John wouldn't listen to him?

'We're here, sir', the cabby said. Sherlock quickly paid and stepped outside. It had darkened during the ride to the small row house which belonged to Misses Bradley. There was no light in the windows. Everything was quiet. As the cab drove away the sleuth paced to the door. He turned the doorknob of the large wooden door. It was open, so John was already here. Silent as a cat Sherlock sneaked up the stairs to the bedroom. As he heard a low _plunk_, Sherlock froze. He was too late. John had already killed the woman. Then his heart started to rattle and skipped a beat. _John._ John was here. He shook his head. He couldn't let himself have sentiment now. With a sort of definitiveness he opened the door to the bedroom.

'Stop it, John. This isn't you', he said. He hated himself for the little tremor in his voice, when he spoke his name. The short man in the middle of the room turned around. He looked different to the last time Sherlock had seen him. He was clothed in black, almost looking elegant, his hair was shorter and the gentle smile which used to be always playing around his lips was gone. He hold a baseball bat in his right hand. But what had changed the most was the look in his eyes. There was no pity, no gentleness, no love, only cold- and bitterness. A icy shiver ran down the detective's spine.  
'Two years. Sherlock', John said coolly. Sherlock intuitively made a step behind. 'You did this to me.' The words stabbed Sherlock's chest like a knife made of ice.  
Sherlock's voice broke, when he said: 'I was trying to protect you.'  
'I think it's a bit late for that now, don't you?', John scoffed and chuckled unamused. That gave Sherlock the rest. John had to get angry, had to shout, had to attack him. But this reaction – this cold cynicism – that wasn't John. That wasn't the man Sherlock had fell in love with, as much as he used to deny it.  
'Please, John, come back to me. Let me help you, please. You will not be arrested, I promise. We could just run away. John, please, forgive me', he begged. John glared at him.  
'Sherlock Holmes pleading. I'm flattered. You know that you are to blame for this, don't you? You knew I was in love with you. You knew how it would destroy me to see you jump. You knew, you always know. But you did it anyway. Let me live in the thought that you were dead. Until the day one of Moriarty's men tried to kill me and told me you were alive, I was just vegetating. I wasn't really living anymore, Sherlock. You had my life token with yours. And you didn't tell me one single word. Nothing. I had no clue. When I found out, that you were alive, I knew there would only be one way to get you back to London. I knew there was only one thing that had ever had any worth for you. _Murder._' He spat the last word, as if he wanted to spit on the detective. Sherlock flinched. Tears fell down his face.  
‚No John, that is not true. You have a lot worth to me. In fact, you are all that matters to me. You made me feel, made me have emotions. I jumped down that building for you, John. Only for you. Please, forgive me. Please, John. I love you.' He whispered the words, not daring his voice. John just gave him a glare.  
'You let me suffer. You let me mourn. You let me alone. How could I ever forgive you? How could I ever go on as before? How could I ever trust you again? Where do I know from that you're not jumping down the next building for a _case _every moment? Sherlock, you did something unforgivable.' Sherlock toke a deep breath. He played his last card. If this didn't work, his plan had failed.

'But why did you want me to find you then, John? Why did you want to see me again?', he asked. A short flash of uncertainty crossed John's eyes. In Sherlock's heart flattered a tiny bit of hope. 'John, why would you want to see me again, if you hate me?', he asked carefully.  
'I-', John hesitated. 'I had to see you again before I go', he eventually breathed, the coldness in his voice gone, replaced through a sadness that broke Sherlock's heart.  
'But where should you-' Suddenly he understood the meaning of John's words. His eyes went wide. 'No, John. No! You can't just kill yourself!', he said horrified.  
'Why should I not? It's not worth to live anymore without you. And you ran away, leaving me alone. You don't want me. And I don't want you, if you don't want me. So I'll go.'  
'Didn't you listen to me before? John, I love you.' Uncertainty Sherlock made a step to John, but when he didn't react in any way, he approached him until he was just a few inches away from him. Carefully he stretched a hand out to touch John's jaw. Out of the corner of his eye he could see how John raised his bat. Then everything went black.

_AN: This is the longest Chapter. Please review :) Hope you liked it! Next chapter will be the last one. _  
_~ TheNameIsAllieHolmes_


	4. Chapter 4: An explanation

**Chapter 4: An explanation**

When Sherlock awoke he had a terrible headache. He was laying on a cold floor in a dark room which looked like the hall of an abandoned house. He felt something soft beneath his head, something that felt like a jacket. He tried to sit up but everything began to spin around, when he moved.  
'Don't move', a voice commanded. It was John's voice. Although he got nauseous, Sherlock tried to sit up again. He had to see him. He groaned when he eventually sat, his back pressed against the cold wall. John sat next to him and avoided his gaze.  
'Where are we?', the detective asked. John scoffed.  
'Deduce it.' His voice was cold, but not as cold as it had been in Eloise Bradley's house. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room, seeing every little scratch in the walls. It was dark and the bulge at his had wasn't very large, so it was still the same night, he assumed.  
'We're not in London anymore', he stated with a raw voice. John nodded. 'Why are we here, John?' John still didn't look him in the eyes.  
'I had to think.'

Sherlock reached a hand out for John's. 'Don't-', the doctor growled, but Sherlock didn't listen. He grabbed John's hand and laced their fingers together. When John didn't withdrew his fingers, the detective started drawing small circles with his thumb on John's hand.  
'Please, John', he pleaded, 'please come with me.' John quirked his brow - Sherlock couldn't deduce what he was feeling.  
'You still want me?', the doctor asked. The sleuth just nodded. 'But I punched you Sherlock. And I... I murdered. I killed innocent people.' Suddenly he started to sob. He hid his face in his hands and his shoulders were shaking. In that moment Sherlock new that John had realized just now what he had done. He had been in a state of anger and insanity during his killings and hadn't noticed what he was doing. 'You have no idea how it feels to kill someone', John mumbled.  
'I have.' John took the hands of his face and stared at him.  
'Sorry?', he asked. Sherlock looked straight into his eyes.  
'I have. How do you think I destroyed Moriarty's web?'  
'You did what?', John asked bluntly.  
'I destroyed Moriarty's web. That's why I couldn't tell you, that I'm still alive, John. He had snipers on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. After Moriarty killed himself I had to jump, so that the snipers didn't kill you. Or at least, everyone had to think I had jumped. And then I started destroying his web. I killed all of his man. Every single. I had just finished off his last man, Sebastian Moran, when Mycroft called me and told me about the murders and that you had disappeared. He doesn't know it was you.' John stared perplexed at him.

'You did all this, to save me?', he whispered. Sherlock reached out for his jaw and carefully wiped a tear from John's skin.  
'Of course, you idiot. Do you think I could have stayed away from you any other way?' Their eyes locked. Something changed in Johns gaze. He didn't look angry and disappointed at Sherlock anymore. His eyes softened. _Now or never_, Sherlock thought and leaned in. John didn't back away. They came nearer and nearer, until finally, their lips met.

_~ fin ~_

* * *

_AN: That's it! I finished my first story with more than one chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, please tell me how you liked the end. If requested, I may write a sequel.  
Thanks to the guest-reviewer for pointing out that the dialogues are hard to read, I edited all chapters and now a new paragraph starts whenever an other character speaks. I hope it's now better readable.  
I really appreciate constructive criticism, so that I can improve my writing. If you have some One-Shot requests, contact me and I'll see what I can do.  
~ TheNameIsAllieHolmes_


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